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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29206155">Riptide</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akiko_Natsuko/pseuds/Akiko_Natsuko'>Akiko_Natsuko</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Justified</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Injury, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Post/Alt ending to S02E13, Serious Injuries, Team as Family</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 05:40:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,079</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29206155</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akiko_Natsuko/pseuds/Akiko_Natsuko</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Raylan was alive, so he supposed that made him a lucky son of a gun. But, between Dickie's less than tender treatment and the shoot-out at the Bennetts' - not his finest moment - he finds himself testing the age-old question of whether you can leave Harlan alive. (Alt. ending to 'Bloody Harlan')</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Please note that if you want to talk to me about my fics and writing, or anime/shows/games in general then you can now find me on discord  <a href="https://discord.gg/vxTVpefYyB">The Unholy Trinity</a>.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>   Raylan was hurting, and not just in the ‘I got shot’ kinda way. He’s been shot before, probably not as often as he should have been considering the situations he gets into, but he knows that pain better than most. This is both something more and less, and it’s the less that worries him most because he knows something’s wrong. It hurts too much to be numbness, but not as much as he should, and he can’t take the time to check because there’s a teenage girl lose with a gun and grief that’s mighty enough to engulf everything, and there are eyes on him, worried and watchful, waiting for him to stumble or make another mistake.</p><p>    There’s a muffled noise in his ears as he steps across the threshold into the house, aware of Rachel and Tim at his heels, and he’s not sure if it’s their footsteps, the chaos outside, or the hammering of his own heart. It had been close, far too close, and he knows he’ll have to think about that later. Think about that perfectly aimed shot that had saved his neck, fighting the urge to glance back at Tim, having a good idea of just who had been responsible for that. There’s part of him that wants to do this alone, not sure how Loretta’s going to react to the three of them descending on her.</p><p>   However, a larger part of him is glad they’re there, although he won’t say as much. As stubborn as he is, he knows that coming here with nothing but Dickie to guarantee his survival had been a foolish idea and that he’s lucky that the others arrived – and he’ll have to find out how that miracle happened later, and probably get an earful at the same time. Relieved that he’s going to get the chance for that lecture, something that he would have bet the Bennett fortune against a couple of moments again. But, he’s alive and for now, that’s enough, at least that’s what he tries to tell himself. Tries to tell himself that he doesn’t wish that Art had ordered him to let someone else deal with whatever is going on inside, so he can just breathe in the fact that he’s alive. Not that he would have, because Loretta is in there and she’d called him, and he’d come this far, and he’s a stubborn bastard if nothing else.</p><p>“You sure about this?” Tim is at his shoulder, strategically placed to shoot if anything or anyone moves into sight.   Raylan’s not sure he could shoot straight right now even if he tried. He’s not too sure about the trying either, feeling the tremor in his fingers, and hoping that neither Rachel nor Tim can see it. Knows it’s a vain hope when he glances at Tim and sees the sniper’s eyes dart from the fingers curled around his gun to the hand pressed against his side and back to his face. “Ray…”</p><p>“You going to go in there and talk a teenage girl down from shooting someone?” Raylan cuts him off, not liking how hard it was to speak, as though each word had just taken a valuable breath. Decides not to think about it, even as he presses a little more firmly on his side, as Tim grimaces and doesn’t reply. “Thought not,” he muttered turning away. Truth is, he’s not entirely sure he’s going to be able to talk Loretta down, depends on what Mags has said and done, and how they react to him, and given the way his looks been going today he’s not holding his breath. He’s not going to say that aloud though, not with Rachel’s gaze burning a hole between his shoulders as though she knows he’s hiding something, and with Tim quiet but uneasy at his shoulder.</p><p>“Just make it quick,” Tim says, at last, nudging him forward. Clearly not liking that he’s sending Raylan in first, but accepting that as much as he’s likely to be the one that gets shot, he’s also the least likely to get shot on sight, doesn’t mean he has to like it though.  “There’s at least one person in that room that wouldn’t mind watching you bleed out.”</p><p>“Why Tim, didn’t know you cared,” Raylan murmured, voice soft and not just because of the effort now as he strained to hear what was happening in the room ahead. No point rushing in blind, even if Art thought that was what he did most of the time.</p><p>Which to be fair…</p><p>“Loretta?” He calls, not wanting to surprise her. It’s bad enough surprising an experienced shooter, a teenager on the edge was a terrible idea, and he’s not keen to end up with another bullet in him today. Turns out it’s a warranted worry as Loretta swings to face him, and not for the first or even second time that day he finds himself staring down the barrel of the gun, and he must be more shaken than he cares to admit because his heart leaps into his throat and he has to fight the instinctive urge to flinch back. That movement might make that finger on the trigger tighten and then it really would be a mess, so instead, he sucked in a shaky breath and spread his hands, trying to appear unthreatening.  “W-woah…Woah…Woah.”</p><p>“Sit down,” Loretta’s voice is steadier than he’d thought it would be, especially with the way her hand is trembling, and how she glances at Mags and the blood on the older woman’s leg and back at him, gesturing at him with the gun.</p><p>At least it’s not aimed directly at him anymore.</p><p>    He eyes the seat she’s gesturing at for a moment, doesn’t want to admit how tempting the thought of sitting down is right now, pressure building behind his eyes. He still feels wrong, the pain not sharp enough and something is looming, rising beneath the surface that he can’t think about right now, because Loretta is on edge, Mags is breathing hard, and there’s a circus outside. <em>What a mess. </em>He drags his attention away from the sofa, knows that if he sits down right now, he might not be getting up again, and he needs to be able to move fast if he manages to push Loretta in the wrong direction.</p><p>“How about I just lean against this door jam for a little bit?” He asked, already moving to do just that, realising how much he needed the support as he leant into it, and groaned. He can hear Rachel and Tim shifting behind him and gives a little shake of his head. He appreciates the worry, probably more than he could and would say even when they weren’t in the middle of this mess, it doesn’t mean he wants them to act on it, ignoring the small voice that sounds suspiciously like Art that’s calling him a ‘damned fool’ and that he should rely on them a bit more.</p><p>“You okay?” Loretta looks worried, and even though he wants to pretend it’s nothing, it’s a good sign that she can still care about something other than shooting Mags.</p><p>“Yeah just…” He shifted, trying to find a slightly more comfortable position before giving it up as a lost cause and pressing more firmly on the wound, aware of the pulsing of blood. How much had he lost? He didn’t fancy fainting here, and he pressed a little harder, using the pain to focus himself. “Took a bullet in the exchange outside.” <em>Exchange,</em> as though he’d managed to get a shot off. Damn it, his thoughts were drifting all over the place, another bad sign, and it was a struggle to focus on the scene in front of him as he tilted his head a little.   “How about you tell about what’s going on in here?”</p><p>    Loretta seems to decide he’s not much of a threat at the moment, and he hopes it’s a sign she trusts him and not that he looks like he could keel over at any moment, as she turns her attention back to Mags. “I’m tired of people telling me as much truth as they see fit,” she says, and Raylan winces, having a feeling he could probably be caught in that, although he’s done his best to be truthful with her. Her hand is a little steadier now, but there’s a lingering quiver that makes him nervous, it would be so easy for that finger to slip, and he can all but see Tim settling into position, ready to react. None of them wants that. Loretta doesn’t seem to notice though, voice rising a little now. “I want to know who really killed my Daddy.”</p><p>“Breaks my heart seeing you holding that gun,” Mags seems to realise that Loretta isn’t going to back down on the question, and Raylan waits. The words are as sweet as the drink the woman is known for, but there’s a glimmer of honesty in there, and so he waits. “Wanted to keep you away from this life. I wanted to let you be a child a little longer.” All this time with the Givens and Bennetts at loggerheads, and it was over a grieving, heart-broken child that they were finally in agreement, although Raylan wasn’t sure how much of the ‘child’ remained in Loretta after losing her father. Fairly sure his own childhood, such as it had been, had gone into the ground with his mother. That wasn’t a thought for now, not with his blood trickling through his fingers and that empty grave just down from his mother’s flashing through the back of his mind, and it’s almost a relief when Mags continues. Almost, because she says the one thing that might just make Loretta pull that trigger again before Raylan has a chance to talk her down.   “Wasn’t Cougar that did it. It was me.”</p><p>    As confessions go, it’s almost disappointing in its simplicity. Raylan spares a small thought for Cougar and how that mess ended, before dismissing it, the man might not have committed this murder, but he’d done enough, and he’d been out for his blood that night.</p><p>“Because he called the police about the pervert?” Loretta’s voice cracked and broke now, and Raylan couldn’t blame her. He knew that there was a code around here, had grown up grounded in it, but he also knew that meant nothing right now. Not to Loretta. Not when weighed against the fact that her Daddy had been killed because he’d been trying to protect her.</p><p>“That’s right,” Mags nodded, trying to smile, trying to soothe and explain, as though there was anything she could say that would make Loretta understand. “But I tried to make it up to you, by giving you a better life here.”</p><p>“I had a life,” Loretta’s voice rose in a cry, and there were tears now, in her voice and on her cheeks and her finger on the trigger was shaking worse than ever. “Me and my Daddy were just fine!”</p><p>“No, you weren’t.”</p><p>“Shut up!”</p><p>   Raylan tenses at the shout, even though he doesn’t blame the girl. Mags pitying tone was like oil on open flames, which means he needs to do something before it becomes a wildfire that takes them all with it, and he straightened, biting back another groan. There’s a moment where the world goes in and out of focus, and he half expects to find the floor rushing up to meet him, instead, he feels himself sway, just a little and he knows that time isn’t on his side as he fights to find his voice.</p><p>“Okay Loretta,” he murmured, voice soft and not just because he doesn’t want to startle her, not sure he has enough breath for anything more right now. Prays that she will listen, because he’s not entirely sure what he’s going to do if she refuses to listen but doesn’t let any of that bleed into his voice, keeps his words simple, his voice steady. “You got the answer you were looking for. Now put the gun down.”</p><p>“I got to do this,” Loretta says, and he can almost hear himself in those words, pleading with the world to understand why he is the way he is.</p><p>“No, you don’t,” he counters, voice firm, even as everything seems to shift and swirl around him. Ignores the irony that it’s him of all people trying to talk her down of this ledge that she’s put herself on, knows that he’s the last person that should be anywhere near this particular conversation, and also that he’s the only one that Loretta might listen to right now.   </p><p>“The Marshal and me,” Mags looks across at him, and he has to wonder what the world is coming to that they’re both on the same side at the moment as they try to talk Loretta down. “we made our choices now we’re paying for them,” her eyes are on his bloody hand and shirt, and then she’s looking back at Loretta, expression softening and a note of pleading entering her voice. “But you’ve still got a chance.”</p><p>“What wouldn’t you say right now to keep me from shooting you?” Loretta demanded.</p><p>“She’s right,” Raylan interjects, knowing better than to let the girl focus on that train of thought. “Loretta look here,” he waits until her gaze flickers towards him, realising that’s the best he’s going to get right now, and slowly, deliberately sets his gun down on the sideboard. He hears the sharp intakes of breath behind him, wonders if they realise how much it cost him to drop the weapon and trust them to have his back, not that he’d any intention of shooting Loretta regardless, but he still feels naked and vulnerable as he steps forward. It’s a feeling made worse by the fact that it feels like he’s on a boat, everything moving around him, and each step he takes burns like hellfire and he wants to stop, to let someone else take over, but Loretta is hesitating and listening, and this is his chance. “She’s right. You pull that trigger your life is going to change and not for the better.” How different would his life have been if someone had said something similar to him? It wasn’t something he tended to dwell on, but now with his defences down and pain radiating with each step, it burrowed deep, and he hoped no one noted the hitch in his breath as he stepped forward.  “I want you to ask yourself what your daddy would want you to do?”</p><p>   It’s a low blow, but it's also the only one that might stop her. Loretta wasn’t here for greed or power, or any of the other currencies that ran rife in the county. She was here because she loved her Daddy, which meant it was the one thing that could stop her.</p><p>Or push her over the edge.</p><p>“I want him here to tell me.” It’s a wail. A child crying out in the dark as her face crumples and the tears start in earnest, and Raylan almost sags with relief because he knows that he’s got her now. No one that can make that sound, so painfully raw and human, is going to pull the trigger. It doesn’t mean that he’s not cautious as he steps closer, each step an exercise in agony and then he’s there within reach.</p><p>“Killing Mags ain’t going to bring him back,” Raylan says, and for a moment he thinks that he’s lost her because Loretta tenses and then she’s sniffling, looking back at Mags. “Come on now.” Soft and low, patient as she sniffles, the gun wavering and finally, slowly lowers. He releases a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding, almost groans with it, but he can’t falter now because Loretta is turning towards him, broken and lost, and he reaches out and takes the gun from her, let’s her step into his reach and wraps an arm around her shoulders. She’s shaking like a leaf, which means she won’t feel the way he’s trembling as he turns them both away, the movement leaving him dizzy and nauseous. </p><p>    Still, he keeps half an eye on Mags as he guides Loretta to the doorway. Rachel and Tim have lowered their weapons, and they’re both watching him, surprise mingling with the worry in their eyes. He’s not sure whether he should be offended or not but decides he doesn’t have the energy to care right now as he nudges Loretta towards the former. “Rachel…”  She gives him a look, but reaches for Loretta and guides her out and Raylan relaxes a little, she doesn’t need to see or hear anymore today, eyes Mags again as he holds out Loretta’s gun for Tim to take.  Tim give me a minute?” Tim gives him a dubious look, and for a moment he thinks the other man is going to argue especially as his gaze shifts down to the bloody hand Raylan has pressed to his side. Then Tim is sighing and rolling his eyes, lowering his gun and stepping back.</p><p>“A minute.” It’s a warning and promise, and Raylan flashes him a tight smile that he knows is closer to a grimace than anything and then Tim is gone, albeit with a backwards glance that betrays his worry. Leaving Raylan breathless and wincing as he reaches out to retrieve his gun. Loretta was one thing. Mags was another, and he’s not naïve enough to think just because she’s injured, and they’ve got her confession witnessed by three Deputy Marshals that she’s helpless, especially as she’s on her feet and moving away from him.</p><p>“You got something to say?”</p><p>   There are probably a dozen things he could say to that, questions and accusations, small talk and everything in between, but he reckons they’re well past the point of pretty words and he hurts too much to worry about what’s coming out of his mouth right now. “Doyle’s Dead,” he says, probably too blunt, and he might as well have shot her because Mags stiffens and goes still.</p><p>“Doyle?”  </p><p>“Hmmm.”</p><p>“What about Dickie?”</p><p>“He’s in custody,” Raylan’s too tired to feel much satisfaction at that, too numb, and he’s not sure whether it’s because Loretta is safe and this is over, or whether he just can’t hold it at bay anymore, but the pain is rising. It’s all-consuming, and he has to swallow back a low groan, and he knows that Mags has heard him when she turns to look at him, and he fakes a smile, knows it falls short as he shrugs a shoulder and immediately regrets it. “Thought you’d like to know.”</p><p>“I appreciate it.” There’s a pause then, neither of them sure of what to do or say, and Raylan knows that she can see he’s struggling, thinks anyone could spot it from a mile away. Half expects her to comment, or to try and take advantage of it, she has plenty of reason to after all, but instead, after a moment she turns away.  “You like a drink?”</p><p>“Apple Pie?”</p><p>“Ease the pain.” If she’s planning on lashing out at him she’s doing a good job of hiding it as she reaches for glasses and the jar of moonshine, and Raylan doesn’t have it in him to remain upright much longer and he can’t sense any danger here. And he’s too tired to care either, and so he nods and holsters his weapon, sways a little as he does so and stumbles a little as he heads for the table, hand pressed to the wound, distantly aware that the pressure doesn’t hurt as much anymore.</p><p>“Yeah…”</p><p>    This wasn’t how he’d imagined the day going or ending, and he has to admit that there are worse things as he sinks into the chair, and realises he isn’t getting up out of it without help. The action of sitting makes him feel like he’s been torn in two, the world going white, then grey and back to white, before it comes back into focus, albeit hazier than before and there’s a glass in front of him and Mags is filling it and then her own. The liquid glistening gold, catching the sunlight trickling in, a bright spot in his hazy vision. There’s that voice – the one that sounds mightily like Art – which cautions him against this, and not just because of the pain and the fact that he has a hospital in his future, but Raylan’s got good at ignoring that voice. Too good, he’s sure Art would say as he wraps trembling fingers around the glass and lifts it, drinking as Mags does, the silence between them oddly comfortable considering everything, but then there’s a way of doing things, and it’s a rhythm that’s as easy as breathing even after all this time. Easier than breathing in fact, the drink burning on the way down, his breath catching and hitching.</p><p>“Good as I remembered,” he said.</p><p>“Figure we should end this feud now, way it should’ve ended a long time ago,” Mags has lowered her glass too, and holds out her hand and for a moment he stares at it. It’s a gesture really. Arlo is still out there causing goodness knows what mischief, and he doubts that Dickie will let things lie if and when he ever gets out of jail, but the offer is good on her part, he knows that as he meets her eyes.</p><p>“I guess,” he reached out and took her hand, can’t help but wonder what might have happened if they’d done this a long time ago. It takes him longer than it should to realise that her grip has shifted until it feels as though his hand is caught in a trap, and there’s something in her expression that he doesn’t like as he tries to pull back and she doesn’t let him, and that voice that sounds like Art is telling him ‘I told you so’ as his eyes dart to the drinks on the table and back to her. “Mags…what did you do?”</p><p>“The same thing I did to Loretta’s Daddy,” Mags is smiling now, and Raylan tries to pull free again and she gives him a look that is halfway between peaceful and pitying as she reached out to grasp his hand between both of hers, locking him in place.  “It’s too late, it was already in the glass not in the jar.” His eyes dart to the glasses again, to the golden liquid that had seemed so beautiful a moment ago and there’s a bubble of fear rising through the haze of pain and exhaustion. The realisation that there might be no saving himself from this, and then Mags was shaking, and the fear became realisation and shock. “This is the hard part.” It’s short-lived the shaking at least, and Raylan knows that he should be doing something. Moving or shouting for help, but he’s not sure he can do anything, especially as Mags speaks, voice fading away with each word until her head falls back, and she finally releases him from her grip. “Put an end to my troubles. Get to see my boys again. Get to know the mystery…”</p><p>She looks peaceful in death.</p><p>    Raylan took a deep breath and leaned back in his seat, studying her. It wasn’t how he’d expected it to end, or even how he would have wanted it to end, but it was over. There was relief, he supposed. Or maybe it was grief of a kind.</p><p>He wasn’t really sure.</p><p>“Raylan?”  He tilted his head at the quiet voice, almost smiling at the fact that Tim had kept his promise and come back to check that he hadn’t had his ass handed to him. Wondered what the other man must be making of the scene in front of him, lifting his head to try and see Tim’s expression and frowning as he realised that he couldn’t make it out, even as Tim drew closer, moving a little faster as though he had spotted something worrying. “Raylan, what did…?” He thinks he must be talking about Mags, but now that the sniper is closer he can see his features a little better, still hazy – far too hazy considering how close they are as Tim reaches him – and the other man is focused on him, sparing Mags no more than a glance to confirm she’s not a threat, and there’s fear beneath the worry this time.</p><p>“Tim…” It feels like a herculean effort to get that word out, and he’s not sure if it's his hearing or his voice that’s giving out on him as it slurs in his ears. “I…” He tries to move, ignores Tim’s urgent warning and the hand that’s appeared on his shoulder, and then he’s toppling, sideways he thinks but he’s not quite sure, because the swaying from earlier has become a dizzying kaleidoscope that leaves him unable to tell which way is up or down. “T-Tim…” He gasps or thinks that he does, not entirely sure if the sound had made it to the outside world or if it had even made sense. The fall has torn something lose, or that’s what it feels like and there’s a fire in his side, in his chest and throat, a thousand different hurts roaring to life all at once, and now he feels everything all at once, and there’s a roaring in his ears and he feels like he’s drowning in everything.</p><p> “RAYLAN!” Tim is still there, and Raylan tries to open eyes that he wasn’t aware of closing in the first place and just about makes out a shape that he thinks must be the other man. He tries to speak, to say something to counteract the panic he’d heard in that shout, but his voice isn’t working anymore, or maybe it’s him, because he can’t move, can’t think and can’t breathe through the pain. He’s distantly aware of a hand on his face, and an urgent voice raised with desperation, but he couldn’t respond even if he wanted to, the haziness becoming thick darkness that rises up and crests over him like a tidal wave, and he’s fairly sure he hears Tim shouting his name or maybe cursing it as he slips away and under.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Raylan was alive.</p><p>    Three words that would have been a hell of a lot more reassuring if Tim’s hands weren’t currently covered in the other man’s blood, dried now and flaking as he rubbed twitchy fingers together. If he closed his eyes, he could still feel Raylan’s blood beneath his hands, wet and warm, and far too much of it.</p><p>
  <em>   Tim hadn’t liked the idea of leaving Raylan alone in that room, and part of him had been tempted to haul the other man out of there and into the tender mercies of the paramedics despite his request. However, it had been the fact that it had been a request rather than an order or demand, that had made him listen. He wasn’t sure whether it was the near-miss – and that wasn’t something he wanted to think about right now – or the pain of his injury, but there had been a crack in the usual cocksure armour that had unnerved him and made him agree. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>    Not that he’d gone far, standing guard just outside the front door. One eye on the activity around the house, gaze lingering briefly on Raylan’s bullet-ridden car that won’t be going anywhere anytime soon, trying not to count the number of holes. Trying not to think just how many of those bullets could have hit Raylan if he’d been positioned slightly differently, or if they’d been even a second later in moving. There’s a faint tremble in his fingers as he taps them against his gun, but he ignores that with the ease of long practice, it’s always that way after he’s taken a close shot and that one had been closer than most. It only happens when he can take a moment to breathe, to let the tension bleed away so he doesn’t worry about it too much, and instead he uses the tapping to count the seconds, and minutes, one eye on those around him, one ear on the house behind him, hoping for Raylan to come out on his own accord.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Of course, he doesn’t, and the minute has come and gone and then some, and there’s an unpleasant feeling just shy of panic rising in the back of his throat as he turns back. Determined to drag Raylan out by the scruff of the neck if necessary. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It was too quiet.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>   Quiet was something that Tim didn’t like. For one, it gave his thoughts too much time to get going and run themselves in circles, which was when the memories would bubble up. For another, it tended to mean trouble and with Raylan in the mix that was more of a concern than usual. He sped up, eyes checking the doors and windows, searching for any sign that they could have missed. Nothing. It’s not a relief, and there’s more tension than anything as he rounds the doorway into the room where he’d left the other man.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>   He’s not sure what he’s expecting, but he’s fairly sure that the sight that greets him wasn’t it. Raylan’s sat at the table, listing a little to the side, something that’s to be expected with his injury. What isn’t to be expected is the glasses on the table, golden liquid catching the sun. Or the sight of Mags Bennett slumped back in her seat, and a quick glance tells him all that he needs to know. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Raylan?” That at least garners a reaction, Raylan tilting his head towards him, listing as though his entire body might follow. That’s concerning and Tim is already frowning, even before he glanced down, following the trail of something dark and vital that is trickling down a chair leg to the dark stain growing underneath. Shit. He doesn’t remember holstering his weapon, but he’s already halfway across the room before Raylan lifts his head, trying to focus on him, the effort clearly costing him. “Raylan, what did…?” He doesn’t finish, the words catching in his throat as he reaches Raylan and sees the colour has drained from the other man’s features, eyes struggling to focus. Double Shit. He spares Mags a glance, just to be on the safe side, but it's clear as day that she’s not a threat anymore and his attention snaps back to Raylan as the other man rallies and tries to speak.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Tim…” It’s barely a whisper, and it seems to have taken everything out of Raylan just to say that much because he’s listing worse than ever, eyes blinking slow and heavy as though he’s fighting to keep them open, and his voice slurs.  “I…” Raylan clearly knows somethings amiss because his expression crumples, and then he’s trying to move even though it clearly hurts him</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Stay still,” Tim cautions him, reaching out to try and stop him or brace him, he’s not entirely sure which. In typical fashion, Raylan keeps trying to move, and then he’s falling and making no effort to catch himself.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“T-Tim…” It’s a strangled gasp, torn lose by pain as Raylan hits the ground. But it’s the pained noise that follows that shakes Tim lose of the shock that had gripped him at the sight of the blood staining the chair, pooling in the seat. So much blood, and there’s a roaring noise in his ears that shatters with Raylan’s groan, and then he’s moving to crouch down beside Raylan.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“RAYLAN!” There’s panic bubbling up now, panic and fear, and he’s highly aware of the blood beneath him, the blood that greets his fingers as he reaches out for the other man. Raylan’s eyes are closed, expression twisted with pain, but at his shout, Raylan stirs, visibly struggling to open his eyes. “That’s it Raylan,” he’s not used to encouraging the other man, not like this, urgent and soothing and as far from normal as it’s possible to get. Raylan is trying to focus on him, but his eyes are slitted, gaze drifting to a point somewhere beyond his left ear, but it’s better than nothing. It’s better than the sight of Raylan trying to speak, choking and gasping on the words, a noise like a wounded animal rising in the back of his throat, and Tim reaches out, pressing his hand to Raylan’s cheek. The skin beneath his touch is cool and he can feel the shivers wracking the other man, and swallows. “Raylan? Raylan look at me. Stay with me!” He orders – refuses to admit that it’s close to begging at this point – before lifting his head. “WE NEED HELP IN HERE!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>    There’s a flinch at his shout, and he looks down just in time to see Raylan’s eyes close, creep open and then close again. “Raylan? Come on Raylan open those eyes for me.” Definitely begging at this point, he can’t even lie to himself as there’s a commotion outside and the sound of rushing footsteps, his eyes locked on Raylan’s face, searching for a response and finding none. No. He’s moving now, slipping into his training, falling back on what he knows because the panic is clawing at his chest, and he can’t fall apart right now. There’s a pulse beneath his searching fingers, and Raylan’s chest is rising and falling, but not as steadily as he would like, but it’s something. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It means that Raylan is still alive.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>    Tim’s hands are steadier now even as panic claws at him, because there’s a task to be done. A mission. It focuses him, lets him block out the ragged sound of Raylan’s breathing, too harsh, too fast, too soft. Focus Gutterson. There’s blood on his hands now, and there’s that momentary blurring again, past and present, and a roaring in his ears, but he pushes through it because Raylan isn’t moving and he’s bleeding and Tim’s there, pushing past bloodied material. One gunshot wound left side – he saw Raylan holding it, moves to press his own hand down on the wound. Pressure keep pressure on it Gutterson. “WHERE’S MY HELP?!” He roars, not taking his eyes off Raylan, his other hand moving to push Raylan’s shirt out of the way, there’s bruising – fresh, still developing, had they missed something? More worryingly there’s more blood. Another wound? He finds it, brushes against a gash. Had Raylan been winged as well? What else did we miss? What else did I miss? </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Damn it Raylan, why didn’t you say it was so bad…</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Sir?” There are hands on his shoulders trying to move him away, and Tim tenses and leans forward, trying to curl over Raylan. Instinctively defensive. It takes him a moment to recognise the bag that is set down beside Raylan, and the uniform of the man and woman trying to move him aside, the latter soft-voiced as she tries to get him to move. “Sir, you need to move and let us help him.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Help.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Help him,” he croaks, and then Rachel is there too and pulling him back and away. She doesn’t try and get him out of the room but moves them back until they’re all but pressed against a cabinet, and her arm lingers around him. Grounding him, and maybe grounding herself as well as they watch the paramedics work on their colleague and friend.</em>
</p><p>    Movement wrenches Tim back into the present and he tenses reaching for a weapon that isn’t there before he realises that it’s Art. Art whose paused midstep, mouth open as though he had been speaking. Maybe he had been, Tim’s not always the best at keeping up with the present when the memories catch him, and his hands twitch, dried blood pulling on his skin.</p><p>“Here,” Art says after a pause, apparently deciding Tim’s not a threat at the moment, voice even and calm, at odds with his expression and Tim knows exactly where the other man’s thoughts are gone. Can see the wariness and worry and knows that they’re both equally justified right now and tries to offer him a smile, not even sure he manages a grimace, but it seems to encourage Art to keep speaking.  “There’s a bathroom just over there.” It takes longer than it should for Tim to unravel the words, let alone notice the bundle of clothes that Art is holding out to him, and he blinks, when had that happened? Then he glances down at himself, and it’s like everything is hitting him all over again as he takes in the state of his clothes, and for a moment there’s nothing but Raylan’s blood and a roaring in his ears, and the distant sound of gunfire.</p><p>“Yeah…” He swallows, forcing the memories back and wrenching his eyes away from the drying blood, reaching out to take the clothes from the older man. “Bathroom?” He asks, remembering that Art had said something about it, but not what. <em>How much had he missed? </em> He didn’t like missing things, it left him feeling exposed. Vulnerable. And right now Rachel’s somewhere helping with the fallout from this mess, although she knows that she won’t go far, and Raylan…Raylan is…</p><p>“Over there,” Art tilts his head, cutting across his spiralling thoughts and Tim follows his gaze and sees the sign a few doors down. He’d walked past it to get to this point, and the feeling of disorientation that had gripped him from the moment he’d been pulled away from Raylan’s side surges, leaving him adrift and he swallows, looks to Art and then back at the sign. Tries to ground himself in the present. He’s here. Raylan’s here and alive. <em>For now,</em> a small voice needles at him, and the disorientation becomes nausea as he takes a step back, clutching the clean clothes against himself like a shield.</p><p>“Right…I’ll just go clean up then…” He doesn’t recognise his own voice, but at least it’s something to focus on and keep his thoughts from straying to the scene he’d walked in on, or what might be happening beyond the doors that Raylan had disappeared through. He turned to leave.</p><p>“Tim,” Art reached for him, cautiously brushing his arm but making sure not to restrain him, and its wariness more than worry now, but he does not flinch away from meeting Tim’s gaze. “He’s going to be all right, you got him out of there.”</p><p>“Yeah.” Some part of him realised that Art is trying to help, and another part of him needs to hear those words. <em>I got him out of there. </em> A larger part of him is aware that the older man is trying to reassure himself as much as Tim, an even larger part of him doubts, but he doesn’t say that. Knows that Art needs the comfort as much as he does, and he tries to offer him a smile, not even sure he manages a grimace, but it seems to be enough because Art makes no attempt to stop him as he all but flees to the bathroom ignoring the strange looks, he gets from a couple of people walking in the opposite direction.</p><p>    The bathroom itself is mercifully empty, although that means there’s nothing to distract him from his reflection in the mirrors above the basin. No way to hide from the blood on his hands and clothes, the strained, drained look on his face as he stares at himself for a long moment. <em>Raylan. </em>His partner’s blood is everywhere, so much of it and Art’s words ring hollow in the face of his expression.</p><p>Yes, he’d pulled Raylan out of there.</p><p>
  <em>…but was it in time?</em>
</p><p>**</p><p>    As much as he wanted to hide away in the bathroom and avoid the real world, Tim knew that would only wash so long, and he didn’t want to cause the others any more worries. He also needed to know what was happening with Raylan. <em>Were we in time? </em>He’s dumped his bloody clothes in the bag Art had folded in the pile, and as much as he wants to toss them into the bin he doesn’t, holding the bag at arms-length as he takes a deep breath and steps out into the corridor.</p><p>    Art is pacing back and forth across the corridor on the phone, and Tim catches a few words here and there and he’s glad that the paperwork and red tape isn’t on him for this. There’s a couple of other officers at the other end of the corridor, it had turned into a large operation and Raylan for all his ability to walk into any building in Harlan and have half a dozen people ready to shoot him within seconds has friends. He’s not entirely sure that the other man is aware of that though. Tim avoids them. He doesn’t want to talk, at least not more than necessary and Art’s the one most likely to have information on Raylan and he’s busy, so he moves to the side and leans against the wall, dropping the bag of clothes at his feet. Closing his eyes and just focusing on breathing. He can hear the muffled conversations around him, hurrying footsteps on the floors and the beeping and trills of various machines at work, it does little to settle him, but it does keep him present and that’s something.</p><p>    He misses Raylan because as much as the other man drives him up the wall half the time, he does keep the thoughts and memories at bay if only because Tim can’t afford to slow down for a minute when Raylan is around. Rachel is a good distraction too, their friendship is different and she’s not as willing to push him as Raylan is, but he hadn’t seen her when he’d stepped out and he can’t remember what Art had asked her to do, and…</p><p>“Tim,” Rachel appeared as though summoned, and by the time his eyes were open she was at his side. “Here, you look as though you can use this,” she said as she pressed a cup of coffee into his hands. He accepted it automatically, curling his fingers around them and hoping that she wouldn’t notice the tremor that he couldn’t stop.  “Tim…” She’s carefully not staring at his hands, and he feels a burst of gratitude and irritation because as much as he doesn’t talk about it, he doesn’t want to be treated as though he’s made from glass. He’s had that before, and it made it worse. Still, he’s not about to take it out on her, lifting the cup and taking a sip – it’s sweeter than he likes, but he has a feeling that’s deliberate, so he swallows it down before changing the subject.</p><p>“Any news?”</p><p>“Not yet,” Rachel pauses, and he can practically see her weighing the pros and cons of following the distraction. He almost envies her ability to keep thinking and be rational at the moment, then again, he supposes Art needs at least one of them to remain on an even keel. Especially, as their boss is currently pacing, eyes darting from the desk to the corridor, to them and then back. It’s the most unsettled he’s seen the older man since joining the office, and that doesn’t do anything for the quivering, nameless thing in the pit of his stomach.  “They said that they will let us know as soon as there’s something to know.” Tim knows enough about doctor-speak to know that’s not a good sign because it means that Raylan needs them, that Raylan’s bad…</p><p>That Raylan could…</p><p>“I shouldn’t have left him alone.” He hadn’t meant to say it aloud, but it had crept out anyway and he can’t take it back, because it’s the truth. <em>Give me a minute. </em> He should have refused, it had been there on the tip of his tongue, but instead, he’d made some glib promise and stepped out of the room when Raylan had been there bleeding to…</p><p>“You weren’t to know,” Rachel said softly, trying to soothe, but there’s guilt in her eyes as her gaze flicker to Art and then towards the doors that Raylan had gone through.</p><p>“We knew he’d been shot,” Tim countered, wondering if his expression held the same guilt. He feels bad for his words when she winces, knows that he should say something to comfort her, but the words escape him and he settles for looking down at the coffee cup again, stiff, and uncomfortable.</p><p>“It’s Raylan…” She tries and trails off, the words laying thick and heavy between them.</p><p>
  <em>It’s Raylan.</em>
</p><p>Those words had practically become an office motto since Raylan had joined them, and usually, they brought a flash of irritation, amusement, and confidence, because somehow Raylan always seemed to find his way out of the various messes he found himself in. Like a cat always landing on its feet.  Normally, it was comforting, but right now, it felt mocking. <em>It’s Raylan, </em>as though that would fix things and make things automatically work out, as though it wasn’t Raylan whose blood Tim had spent the last goodness knows how many minutes washing away. “Tim…”</p><p>“I know what you mean,” Tim cut her off, not wanting to hear the apology. Instead, shifting slightly to the side and giving her room to lean next to him, close enough to bump shoulders. “He was stood there talking down Loretta and all but bleeding out in front of us, he…”</p><p>
  <em>He’s Raylan…</em>
</p><p>“I’ve never heard him talk someone down like that,” Rachel murmured, and Tim wasn’t sure whether she sounded more surprised or disgruntled that she was surprised, and his lips twitched.</p><p>“That’s because he doesn’t usually talk people down,” he pointed out, taking a sip of his drink and wrinkling his nose at the sweetness. He liked his coffee dark and strong, but he could feel that it was helping, or maybe it was talking to Rachel, but the tremble in his hands was starting to settle. It helped to talk about Raylan as though things were normal, as though this was nothing more than another situation, he’d found himself in, and he huffed out a laugh, who’d have thought that they’d be finding comfort in some of Raylan’s more annoying aspects. “Still, reckon that charm of his has to be good for something other than stirring up hornets’ nests, so talking down a teenage girl with a gun is a step up...” He trailed off, remembering Raylan asking if he was going to go in there and do just that, wondering if it was hindsight adding that note of pleading to the other man’s, hiding his scowl with another sip of his coffee, knowing that Rachel was not fooled as she lightly bumped his shoulder and lifted an eyebrow.</p><p>“We should…” Rachel started when he didn’t respond, only to trail off and he lifted his head as he realised, she was looking at something past his shoulder, following her gaze and taking an unsteady breath as he watched Winona Hawkins come rushing up the corridor towards them. He didn’t want to talk to her, shifting so that the bag of bloodied clothing was behind his legs, and relieved when Rachel moved around him and reached for Art, drawing his attention to the new arrival.</p><p>   And Tim released a breath that he wasn’t aware that he’d been holding when Art stepped forward to meet her, and Rachel moved back to his side. It wasn’t that she didn’t belong, the fear and tears in her eyes evidence enough that she cared about Raylan, but she hadn’t been in that house. Hadn’t felt the blood on her hands and the damn tremble is back in his hands as he hides behind his coffee cup and tries to listen as Rachel starts speaking to fill the silence, filling him in on what he’d missed in the bathroom. It wasn’t much, but it was a welcome distraction and Tim seized it with both hands, like a drowning man at risk of being washed out to sea, and if he paused to think about it too long, the rippling water was the colour of Raylan’s blood.</p><p>
  <em>Raylan.</em>
</p>
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